


fight thou against them that fight against me

by StripySock



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Fights, Gen, Unnecessary classical references, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Tension, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 15:11:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1715081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/pseuds/StripySock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire finds what he'll do for Enjolras if asked. Enjolras remains unaware.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fight thou against them that fight against me

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [срази врагов моих](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5100941) by [corageddon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/corageddon/pseuds/corageddon)



> Title taken from Psalm 35:1
> 
> Prompt found here: http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/14280.html?thread=13663432#t13663432

The table's wood was more finely grained that Grantaire would have expected, and every whorl and knot was familiar - he considered that he might have spent too much time in close acquaintance with it. It played the part at that moment of support, but was too uncomfortable to linger on for long when not cushioned with wine.

In the corner of the room Combeferre and Enjolras were exchanging heated words with each other, voices tight and low, and from long habit, Grantaire tilted his head to the side so he could hear. It was the usual argument. Enjolras walked alone through preference when he visited other groups, when he talked to the labourers who had formed their own societies. Combeferre was never happy with this state of affairs, reminded Enjolras that always there were spies, always there were people watching. "It's dangerous," he said flatly. "Enjolras, when I go on your command, you insist that I go with Joly, with Lesgles, with whoever can be spared. A friend to watch your back is an invaluable aide, these are your words and you counsel us not to walk alone."

"They are," Enjolras agreed, but shrugged eloquent shoulders. "But Combeferre, the time is near, it approaches with great haste. We have no time now for caution, each man must do what he can. You are too important to act merely as a guardian, a sword-bearer. I go alone as is necessary. Between us, we must cover as much ground as we can."

Combeferre sighed but made no answer for a long moment. "If we lose you," he said finally, baldly. "If we lose you to the thrust of a pickpocket's desperate knife or to the savages of a police spy, we lose everything. We fail." The words were considered, measured, all the more convincing coming from a man not given to exaggeration or foolish statements. "Think it over Enjolras, at least for today. There have been rumours that I do not care for, of an ambush perhaps, men drunk with wine who expect your visit and will seek to dissuade you from your path."

Grantaire heaved himself up from the table, and braced his hands against the solid wood. "I'll go, unless you're determined to play the Lucretius and disdain death," he said, and grinned, knowing it displayed discoloured teeth and not caring. "Enjolras, I'll walk beside you, the Briareus to your Zeus, a sturdy guardian, like a Cerberus barring your entry to the underworld. Let them come, two, three at a time, and I shall repel them with the force of my manly arms, noble brow and my brawling ways. If that does not work, I shall breathe on them and let Dionysius do his work. The grape is a noble substance after all, and will turn its hand to more than one task. Regardless, grape, malt, hops, they shall do their duty in this task, fire my blood, speed my sword, prime my musket."

"No," Enjolras did not look at him as he swept the armful of papers from the table and began sorting them - some for keeping and some for burning. "I need no nursemaid, particularly not one like you, belching and attracting attention because he can't keep himself quiet in the vital moment."

"Oh, I shall be quiet Enjolras. Softly, softly will I tread, so quiet you will not know that someone paces your steps, stalks your shadow, a regular tsalmaveth as Jehan would say, and while you speak to your compatriots, your zealous friends, talk of deeds to be done while the time comes, I'll play the Pedius in both parts - walk with you on foot, and hear not what you say, the proverbial perfect manservant of Isiaiah."

Combeferre spoke quietly. "Enjolras, consider it. Grantaire jokes, but he is a pair of hands, and a stout pair at that."

"That can't be trusted," Enjolras cut in impatiently. "Will I entrust myself to a man who does not know the urgency and need of this task, who plays the laughing fool and would doubtless trip over his own feet on the way to a bottle." He touched the large pocket of his coat. "I am equipped and can handle my own if it is necessary," he said lowly.

"Will you kill?" Grantaire enquired. "Ahead of time I mean of course. Steep your fresh white hands in gore before there is necessity? Have you considered the outcome of a bullet to the chest, a sword thrust to the heart. _Nosce te ipsum_ as the old man said as he insisted on paying _after_ his performance in the brothel."

"More than you have," Enjolras coldly replied, and turned his eyes away from Grantaire, who felt his heart beat pitter-pat fast. The recalcitrant organ that mostly declined to show its presence now worked in his breast enough to insist.

"Take me Enjolras," he said and spread his hands. "Will you turn down a tool because it is not ideal? Any gardener would call you fool for refusing a blunt hoe instead of no hoe at all. Turn this dagger to your hand and discard it as you will," and as he listed the uses to which he could be put, he felt the heavy weight of Combeferre's gaze against his face, saw the quiet shrug of Enjolras's shoulders and renewed his attack. "You say you cannot trust me, you blame me that the fervour of revolution doesn't burn in my breast, propose that without it, I am a hollow shell, an empty vessel, but does that interfere with my fists, with my sudden desire to turn myself to account? Believe a new leaf if you must, a fresh start, an unspoiled baptised Saul turning Paul in your wake."

"Take him," Combeferre insisted. "He is not one of us," and Grantaire smiled to cover the storming of his heart against his ribs and the painful profound clench, "in sentiment at least," Combeferre added with the suggestion of a smile and the pain relented a little. "But I vouch for him and he will serve you as a friend."

"Ahh Combeferre makes me a regular Pamphilus, and I shall make you a regular dog," Grantaire added, made fun of his plea and there was something now in Enjolras's expression that he could not face, looked at the firm hands around the sheaf of papers instead. "A task is a task is a task. An escort, no more. I promise no conversion, no letters to the Ephesians, but a pair of hands I can offer and an illspent youth where I earned this shattered nose fairly, this broken jaw squarely, when I played the fool too long and some. Let us learn from the eldest Pliny, fortune may favour the bold, but the needlessly bold may bring fortune to their enemy. Besides, Combeferre and I both protest, shall you play the Alcuin and disdain the voice of the people?"

"Very well," Enjolras said, and there was an assessing power to his gaze as he looked from Combeferre to Grantaire, that Grantaire shrunk from, though he dared not show it, took refuge once again in mockery.

"The marble unbends, Laocoön steps from his suffering perch. It is wise. Now, I shall beg a loan from the ineffable, inestimable Mme. Hucheloup of one of her late husband's singlesticks and promise in return to eat a mouthful of her soup and smile all the while - Jason at dinner shall not be more placid than I, as I risk death at the hands of week old fish."

He left Combeferre and Enjolras in quiet conversation and accosted the widow at her rounds, and she peered at him through old, dimmed eyes and raised her arm to shake it at him. "Ah, you bad boy," she said, and he submitted as youth should, to the whims of the old. "You frightened Matelote with your howling and talk. Be more careful, I insist."

"I shall consider it," he promised, and asked for the loan of an old singlestick, her husband, the fencing master had used. She gave it to him with a sigh for times past, and he received it with gladness, and joined Enjolras at the door who nodded to him slightly as they walked.

Grantaire did not know on what task Enjolras embarked or who he was to meet, these were details that Enjolras did not see fit to share and Grantaire did not begrudge it. The names would mean nothing, the task would be nothing he would care to aid - to be the hand that rained down destruction or forged for the future was not what he had fitted himself for. Nature had created him and Grantaire had shaped himself in the image of all broken gods who turned their faces away from hope.

Instead, he matched his step to Enjolras's, the beat perfect as they stepped along, Grantaire modulating his stride to fit, the slow yielding of his pace and time to the rhythm Enjolras set. It was fast-paced and certain, Enjolras knew where he was leading them, and Grantaire wondered vaguely why they hadn't taken a fiacre. Enjolras walked these streets from day to day though, and he knew as though by instinct, when to turn, when to duck and weave, all the while, his back as straight as the path of a bullet, fair head catching the remains of the sun, eye-catching even as he ignored the world around him. Grantaire who had trained hard in his not so far distant youth, and as much as he prized anything, enjoyed the strength of his body in between bottles, found himself insensibly out of breath, Enjolras, undisturbed, drew his breaths evenly still. He resigned himself to falling a pace behind, keeping a watch on all present.

Once, Enjolras turned his head to look at him, a direct quizzical look that seemed to ask why Grantaire was still there, as though he had taken it as read that Grantaire would vanish, would melt away into the background once they were out of Corinthe's darkened rooms, and the same odd sensation filled Grantaire's chest, filled the hollow cavity where generally cynicism dwelled and was now displaced by a passing, fleeting sense of purpose. He could not name it, but he did not dislike it, added it once again to the reasons why he returned to the company of those foolish men who would risk their lives for nothing at all. Enjolras did not speak however, saved his breath for their march, and once again Grantaire dogged his footsteps, Argo and his master.

He had not expected Combeferre's warning to bear fruit, had dismissed it as needless caution. All too soon it was revealed as unwittin foresight though, when from the shadows melted three dark figures, their faces obscured by mufflers, two with the brims of their hats pulled down, casting their face into indistinct shadowed proportions. Seamlessly, they flowed through the crowd, and drew in closer, sunshine overclouded. Grantaire raised his voice to warn Enjolras, but saw by the set of his shoulders that he already knew. They were near where the meeting-place, the compromise had been, and devoid of knowledge Grantaire fruitlessly pondered who these men could be. Betrayers? Agitators? Police? He did not know, and did not much care. Heedless, he sped his step and fell in beside Enjolras once more, and turned his eyes once to his face for instruction. Enjolras shook his head and continued on, and devoid of will, Grantaire followed once more. He saw the white hand grope at the pocket, and knew with a shiver of sensibility what lay within, that Enjolras did not want to kill and yet with the fierceness of his cause within his breast that he would not allow himself to be killed instead.

If he had been alone, he would have made his move now, fought and known the truth of what they intended. But as his steps had been regulated, now too his will was suspended in the service of Enjolras, supported by his strength, the mistletoe clinging to the oak. When Enjolras stopped, and the three men approached, Grantaire shook out his singlestick hand and wished for a sword cane instead. Beside him, Enjolras drew breath, and Grantaire waited for his command. He felt rather than saw Enjolras's nod, and heard his low voice commanding him to stand ready.

"We will not go easy," Enjolras said, and there was ice in his tone, as though he recognised those who opposed him. "It was they who broke Frédéric's back and left him paralysed, helpless as a child."

"Do you want me to finish it?" Grantaire said, the words foreign and heavy in his mouth. He felt the familiar, cold silence crawl over him, the feeling he'd once craved, once cherished, the silent departure of fear and uncertainty, only calculation left behind. He had felt like this in Monsieur Charbonneau's ring once upon a time.

He saw the minute shake of Enjolras's head. "No," he breathed. "We are not them. But do not make it easy."

When finally the command came, Grantaire was ready. He saw from the corner of his eye, a man approach Enjolras who seemed to acquit himself credibly enough, leaving Grantaire with two assailants. With the cold clarity of the moment before battle, he evaluated them - tall, broad, capable looking men, a brutal twist to their faces, and their fists clenched ready to deal with him. His singlestick looked pitiful against them - these were not men who fenced, who darted back and forward like fishes in a stream, they were men who damaged, brutalised, killed. He had faced those like them before, but never like this in the command of somebody who he knew, with stark simplicity that he would die before allowing to come to harm - there was not time to evaluate such a thought, but he knew it for truth, a cold stab of a thing that wormed its way to his breast and stole his breath all unknowing.

He stood his ground, and brought the singlestick up. A chance to keep them at bay was all he asked for the moment, enough time was all he needed. The old moves came back with ease, his body straightening and easing as he cast aside the pleasant fog that usually clouded his thoughts and instead drew his spine proud and extended his limbs in preparation. He rapped the first man, almost lightly, almost playfully on the hand, a testing move to see the speed with which he would react before he embarked, and noted the scowl which it was greeted with. They circled him, smooth and loose, clearly used to combat, waiting for a gap in his guard, and with the memory of long practice thrumming through him, he took on the first, turning aside to split their advantage, to take on the first man, one-on-one, no more playing, instead he harried him mercilessly, the whistle of the stick through the air, and the smack of the thickened, weighted end against flesh, cutting through the almost-silence, broke only by the wet gasps of the tussling of Enjolras and his opponent.

Monsieur Hucheloup might have been a fencing master, but the weapon his wife had given Grantaire was weighted with lead, not mere ashwood, a formidable, painful weapon, that would if wielded right, not just inflict bruises but even death. He thanked her foresight as he swung it ruthlessly, keeping his back facing away from them both, thankful that they hadn't tried rushing him yet. When with a sinuous rush forward, he managed with luck to crack one of them on the head, and send him down like a ton of bricks, he allowed himself to relax and believe that this would be over soon.

Within moments he understood his foolishness, and cursed his long-forgotten instincts. As he rested for that moment, allowed his eyes to be distracted by the crushing fall of the first of his adversaries, the second had taken advantage of the brief moment of distraction, and putting himself at risk for a brief second had lunged forward, well within range, and hand sharpened to a wedge of clenched fingers, chopped at Grantaire's hand, a brief bloom of pain attended by gathering anger, but enough to loosen his grasp and allow his weapon to be knocked away, as he leapt back. Unarmed, he faced the other man now, looked up at the three inches that separated them, and drew a deep breath. It was not just single-stick lessons he had taken after all. He was not unskilled with his fists. They circled each other warily for a second, a moment to learn of weakness, and then the other man leapt at him, strong stride swallowing the ground, his right fist hurtling towards Grantaire's face, as just in time, he raised his arm to block the attempt.

He was out of practice, long hot days of wine and lounging taking their toll on his body, the thick wet gasp of his lungs betraying him to his opponent, as his chest heaved. He threw himself to the side as he blocked the blow, rolled away and back to his feet as quickly as he could. He wasn't fast enough to escape the next blow entirely, it clipped his ear and the side of his head exploded into a white bloom of pain, a thin nagging edge that inflamed him with anger and revitalised his urge to win. Put on the back foot by two blows, he rallied and thrust forward, left hand coming up with casual ease, an advantage others often lacked, and as his opponent ducked, he brought his right fist in with vicious intent. It was a solid punch to the gut, and if his opponent hadn't been well trained, it might well have ended the fight in a flurry of breathless wheezing. As it was, hard tensed muscles met his blow, an instinctive reaction on the other man's part. Still, he had reasserted himself, and the man was wary of him now, falling back to circle round, fists up and loose, eyes focused and hard as though he was re-evaluating him.

Grantaire grinned, conscious still of a second advantage. The man was not ill-looking, coarse heavy features perhaps but there was an animal vitality to him that often played well with women, and a well-shaped nose that he wouldn't want to break if he had any choice - and which given his line of work had been preserved remarkably well. Grantaire's nose had been broken several times and he had never had any looks to speak of. His face he protected because past that thin layer of skin lay his brains which he had a mild and passing attachment to, but his ugliness provided him with a certain amount of willingness to risk himself, and on such a command as that which he had been given.

The moment's pause had restored his lungs to him, and disdaining to wait, he lunged. This was no formal ring, there were no rules here, no soft hidden places immune from his fists, no gentlemanly agreement to preserve future heirs. The blows between them became newly hard and punishing, Grantaire felt the trickle of blood from a split lip down his chin, and landed a blow that he knew would swell the other man's face the next day. The air was acrid and thick with the smell of sweat, and he had not an eye to spare for Enjolras or to wonder how the other man was acquitting himself, as he rammed a fist into his adversaries side, and then with a swift recovery, followed it with a blow that snapped his chin back, as the back of his knuckles connected. His hand came away wet and slippery with the freely flowing blood, and as though his ear had been clipped again, it enraged him, regalvanised him; having scented blood it seems as though nothing would do than the rest of it spilt upon the floor at his feet.

It felt good. Perhaps purpose was this. Did Enjolras feel like this when he pictured Paris rising to his call? Did the same brutal sense of exhilaration fill his veins? Grantaire doubted it, as with newly mechanical precision, he swung again and connected hard, his foe swaying comically now, as with nerveless hands he warded off Grantaire's blows, a weak feeble grasping at the air. Through his body there pounded a sense of wonder at the naked humanity revealed under his grip, the subtle lure of giving himself over to a stronger will and letting it guide him. It was without thought that he pressed his advantage, long past the time the fight had been won, slipped on the wet ground and fell, his opponent falling with him, too gone to throw out a hand even.

When they hit the floor, Grantaire stopped, the red pulse of anger fading in his veins, replaced by the bleak dullness of disgust. At what, he was hardly sure. At the heaving warmth of the other man underneath him, a slow sick writhe of pain, or at his own hands smeared with blood, perhaps even at Enjolras, who all unknowing had given him leave for a few moments to throw off his cloak of indolent ennui and allowed a madman to steal forth. He could no longer bring to mind why he had done this, and his stomach heaved an acrid mixture of bile into his throat.

He swallowed it down and bore the burn in his throat, relaxed his muscles, and looked at the man who lay beneath him now, and for no reason rested a hand on his face, smeared the blood there for a moment, before he braced himself to get up. When he looked up, Enjolras was silhouetted against the rapidly darkening sky, his face obscured by gathering shadows, a brooding presence. Grantaire was freshly aware of the blood on his hands, how Enjolras had said _jump_ , and he had answered _how high_ , gone above and beyond any need or want. There had been a subsumation of himself in what he had done, and the fear in that second flooded through his veins. With hasty hands he thrust those thoughts down deep enough that he need not look at them, examine how they frightened him. He dragged the shade of Grantaire up again and plastered him close, covered the thump of his heart and the need in his chest that beat a dreadful rhythm of foolish hope, unnameable emotion that he dared not untangle or peer too closely at.

He stood, and saw Enjolras look with a still face at the men on the ground - the two who had been routed now coming slowly to and making a move to drag their comrade away. There was a long silence, broken only by a wet cough. Grantaire, aware of how it looked, shrugged his shoulders casually, resettled his torn jacket and prodded his bruised jaw, anything not to meet Enjolras's eyes.

He knew that when Enjolras spoke, all would be lost. That Enjolras would see his actions as a defense of France, as some gesture of belief, some note of Grantaire accepting the cause into his heart, and the alternative weakened his knees. That Enjolras once past that first fervid acceptance of a conversion that had never happened, would probe deeper, would peel back the layers, strip ruthlessly the thin skin from Grantaire's thoughts and see the emptiness underneath, filled with a gnawing ache and longing that even Grantaire did not understand, and the thought of tender twisted thoughts exposed not just to Enjolras but to his own eyes was unbearable.

So Grantaire spoke first, snatched the words from the air, as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and proffered it with a gaily mocking grin to Enjolras. "Just what I needed before dinner. A dust up in the streets. A fight is as good as a drink for settling the digestion I find - thank you for leading me to one."

It was enough. Enjolras turned away, dismissed him from his thoughts, shelved him perhaps in his mind with men who enjoyed violence not for a cause but as leisure, as a joy in brutality. Not the gleeful casual brawls of Bahorel, but something darker and uglier. Perhaps with the warmth of optimism Enjolras carried inside him, like a banked fire in his chest, there was some momentary flicker, some second of it devoted to Grantaire, the reason why he turned away without speech, but also without revilement, as though, cheated of a convert, he made do for the moment a man who walked beside him, regardless of the gulf between them.

His knuckles were raw and bloody, and his hands stained. His left eye ached, a throbbing swell that would obscure his sight in the morning, and still his stomach roiled, still he felt the phantom struggle of a man under his fists, the seething silent knowledge in himself of what he would do if it came to it, if he were looked at the right way. Next time, he vowed, he would let Enjolras walk alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback appreciated.


End file.
